What is the difference between a turning point and a moment that changes everything? by Don Taco
I always knew what a washtub bass was. My mother sang in a jug band that had a tub player. Because of that, I was also familiar with Jim Kweskin, and a number of older jug bands that had tubs. We grew up near Disneyland, so we went there with out-of-towners at least a few times a year, and there is a washtub bass in Bear Country Jamboree. My all-boys Catholic high school had a sister school that had a tub in the choir room. For me, there was nothing mysterious or unusual about them.
When I finally escaped Los Angeles and Orange County, my first stop was Isla Vista, the college student ghetto next to the University of California at Santa Barbara. It was unique. Half a square mile of land, surrounded on three sides by University property, and the fourth bounded by the ocean. Sixteen thousand people lived there, the second-densest population center in the country. It was a party school, as so many California coast colleges are, but it was also a hotbed of political action, famous for burning down the Bank of America three times. The fourth building the bank built, all brick and stone, has gone through a number of hands, and is now a Community Center, something the activists are very proud of.
Both of my roommates worked for Ecology Action, a program under the umbrella of the college, which ran a recycling center. They started up the first curbside recycling collection program in the nation, which worked due to the population density and small city footprint, and proved that such a program could work, paving the way for nationwide adoption of the concept.
One day, someone had tossed a washtub into the metal bin, and, as it didn't appear damaged almost at all, my roommates brought it home. We put some dirt in the bottom, tossed in some seeds, and the plants weren't getting enough sun, got real skinny and tall, fell over, and died. Probably just as well. Growing marijauna at that time was a very easy way to go to jail. So then I dumped out the dirt and made it into a musical instrument. Not because I played, but because I knew how they worked.It was an experiment, with no actual plans.
The Ecology Action group, since the weather was turning nicer as we drifted into spring, had a serious weekly meeting at someone's apartment, and on alternate weeks, had a much better attended casual pot-luck meeting in the park. People were starting to turn up with guitars, and I knew a few of the faces, if not the names, of the musicians.
The day after I put the tub together, I got off the bus after work, in the early afternoon. The bus stop was a ramshackle wooden half-hexagon built and placed by the underfunded Parks and Recreation District, the only actual political entity in this unincorporated area. The shape made it perfect for the three musicians seated there, almost a half-circle, where they could see and hear each other but the blend of sound could be heard by passers-by. I recognized the mandolin and one of the guitars, ran the block home, and returned with my new toy. The mandolin sang reggae songs, but the music wasn't reggae at all. It was like a freight train barreling through, zero to sixty in no seconds, and speeding up. One of the guitars was a great lead player. I was thrashing along figuring out how to make sounds that fit as fast as I could. Harmonies were tested out. A crowd gathered.
We played from late afternoon until nearly midnight. As the instruments were going back into their cases, the mandolin said, nonchalantly, "So, we gonna be a band, or what?"
And that was the moment. From one breath to the next I was in a band. I was part of something that was cherished in that town for the next four years. I was a musician. That led me, in the long run, to being an actor, a light designer, a set designer, a sound designer, a props maker, a special effects coordinator, a director, a community theater board member, a singer, a songwriter, and a short story writer. That moment changed everything. And set me on a path that filled, and drove, my entire adult life.
Now that first afternoon, obviously a moment that changed everything, could or would seem like a major turning point to most folks. But I say it was the minor turning point. The major turning point in my life was the day when I got too old and tired to continue to bash away at such a physically demanding instrument, not to mention carrying around all the equipment required to match the volume of drummers and the rest of the rock and rollers and electric guitars. The day that I had to set aside the washtub bass, and just be a singer.
Just kidding. That never happened.
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That was the ending I had intended to write, all along, for this tale.
Things change.
Friday morning, while eating breakfast, I had a small stroke. Dizziness. Right side numbness. Loss of motor control in the right hand. 9-1-1. Ambulance ride. Emergency room. Lots of doctors and nurses. Cat scan. (I really miss the days when they used real cats, and I told the nurses that.) MRI. Many other tests with acronyms. Hospital bed. Lumpy. Hospital food. Bland. Handfuls of new pills. All firsts for me.
They sent me home the next day with about a pound of reading material, a batch of new prescriptions, and a list of doctor's appointments.
I'm fine. No impairments, no dire warnings.
The possibility of this being a career-ending event is real, and almost a probablility. However, tonight, the Wednesday after it occurred, I'm going to an Open Mic that I have attended almost every week for several years. I play bass behind quite a few of the regulars. Friday, I'll be at the area's premier venue, sitting in with a birthday party performance by a woman who sings backup in our rock band. And Thursday, I'd be joining a jam with an rollicking acoustic swing band, except I have to attend a meeting.
So, apparently, the universe cannot allow me to remain blissfully young forever, but it isn't vicious enough to take away the greatest joy in my life.
See you at the show!
copyright 2025 by Don Taco
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